âHey big man, itâs okay. We all get setbacks. You were making good progress but something mustâve happened, huh? Something to trigger a bout of intense gluttony? Iâll note your new weight of 536 lbs on your chart and weâll try and devise a new program for you, otherwise youâre just gonna get bigger and bigger until this belly is even more immense. And we donât what that, do we?â
You always wished people would think of you as attractive, didnât you? From school onward, you watched the jock and cheerleader types people thought of as hot, and pined away at the thought of being one of them, but never managed to land in that circle. You were always just a little too chubby to be what most people would have called attractive; and try as you might, the weight never seemed to come off, certainly not for very long.
And then one day, deep down a rabbit hole on the internet, you stumbled onto something astonishing. There were people out there â whole communities, thousands and thousands of them â who adored people exactly like you. Users as attractive as the beautiful people from your past were there, fawning over people who were not just chubby, but downright fat. And who were showing it off every chance they could. Even more surprising, there were countless users who not only liked to admire people as fat as you, but who wanted them *bigger*. Admirers, encouragers, feeders, all of them applauding every pound gained, every inch grown, every clothing size surpassed. No such thing as too big. And the most popular ones, you quickly realized, were very, very big indeed.
So you started posting a few photos â nothing crazy, just a few bathing suit shots showing off your pudgy belly and your plump, jiggling thighs and ass. The result was immediate: dozens of likes, an influx of new followers, and comment after comment about how cute you looked and how sexy your chubby body was. You could feel yourself glowing within from the attention, from being adored â if not lusted after â for maybe the first time.
You had to have more. You kept posting pictures and statuses, showing off more and more of your body as time went on. And for a while, they still received plenty of attention. But slowly, interest waned, the likes diminished, the comments fell off. So you decided to try something new. You posted a video of you eating for the first time; and your followers, to your relief, went wild over it. But one comment stuck out in your mind: âHow much have you gained since you started?â This, you realized, is what they want to see â more weight, cultivated and curated and displayed in all its flabby glory. So you bought a case of snack cakes and a couple of quarts of heavy cream, and set to work.
You kept eating and kept feeding your fansâ fantasies, even as your belly began filling your lap, your ass began overflowing the sides of your chair, and your fingers began growing too thick and pudgy to type with any ease. You let yourself grow, even as many of your friends expressed their concern with all your new weight, because you knew that every pound would bring you that many more fans, ready to fawn over your jiggly body and full belly. They were yours for the taking, and you were a star to them; all you had to do was keep spooning calories down your throat.
Fast-forward to now. Over the years, your diligence in chasing more fans, more likes, more attention from the internetâs fat-lovers has meant your following has expanded along with your waistline. Youâve worked hard to outdo yourself, week after week, on the theory that if a little fat helped, more had to be better. And thatâs always held true. As youâve outgrown wardrobe after wardrobe, and eventually conventional clothes altogether, more and more fans have gone wild seeing your enormous belly, spilling down your front and well past your knees; your pillowy arms, swallowing up your wrists and elbows; your bulbous ass, dimpled with cellulite and bouncing behind you with each step; and the countless rolls all over you, bulging out in all directions. Youâve come to resemble a balloon animal more than you do a person. And sure, youâre too big to drive a car or really go very far on your own now; but itâs not like you feel unhealthy or anything, and itâs well worth it to keep up appearances for your adoring fans. From the hundreds of messages in your inbox every week and the subscription fees in your bank account, you figure, itâs fair to say youâve got this whole gaining thing figured out.
Until the morning you wake up with what feels like the worst cold you can remember, and the pressure in your chest, complete lack of energy, and inability to catch your breath conspiring with the hundreds of pounds of fat covering your body to keep you from getting out of bed. You struggle weakly, rolling your mounds of blubber from side to side, trying to make *something* happen, never thinking about the 24-hour webcam you set up thatâs broadcasting your mounting distress to all your many subscribers.
You message one of your local civilian friends to let them know whatâs happening, begging them to help. When they arrive, thereâs little they can do. In your weakened state, even the two of you together arenât strong enough to move your flabby gargantuan body out of bed. Theyâre not used to lifting something approaching a half-ton, and youâre basically dead weight. Their efforts to help you roll onto your belly or get into a sitting position, their hands sinking into your thick rolls as you flail your arms uselessly, serve only to get more people onto your feed, gawking at the pathetic spectacle youâre putting on. In the end, all your friend can do is call in reinforcements.
If you were in any position to check your account, youâd see hundreds of people logged on and watching intently by the time the ambulance and firemen arrive. Youâd see them going crazy in the chat as one of the EMTs does his best to examine you â lifting your flabby tits to try and listen to your heart and breathing, and having to lug your arm fat around to try and take your blood pressure â while the others stand around inspecting your corpulence and discussing among themselves what to do. As it is, you can barely focus on your immediate surroundings, although the snippets of conversation about something to do with âcardiacâ and âpulmonaryâ catch your ear. You feel the fog partially lift after the EMT fits a plastic oxygen tube into your nose, arranging it out of the way of your encroaching neck and chin fat.
Suddenly, all the people who had been milling around the room gather around the bed. You can hear them talking to one another, but are distracted by the disorienting sensation and considerable discomfort of five or six of them rocking you back and forth, trying to get some kind of large plastic pallet underneath your bed sheets, as your sloshing flab presses chaotically on your insides and frame. You feel their hands all over you, grabbing fat rolls wherever they can to try and get purchase on your body, taking no notice of your mumbled, gurgling protests. Things settle down once they have you on something apparently more solid, but only for a moment. You barely have time to catch what little breath you can inhale before your body starts wobbling once again, the firemen heaving the pallet as they try and work you toward the door and out to the waiting ambulance.
But before they haul you out the door, thereâs a momentary pause when the rolls of fat shaking you back and forth come to rest, and your face is left pointed directly at your webcam. You remember itâs there for the first time today, and your face reddens at the thought of all your fans, watching you bloated, helpless, and at the mercy of a bunch of strangers who are, in all probability, disgusted with everything youâve become. Unlike your other videos, you didnât get to set the rules of engagement for this one; and you know youâre in the hands of medics who, once they drop you off into some fatphobic doctorâs care, will undoubtedly talk about what a whale you are, and marvel at how somebody lets themself go to the point they get that big. Your fans, meanwhile, are probably gaping at your plight, or talking about how sexy youâll look in your medical garb; and theyâll be fapping at the video of your girth being dehumanizingly manhandled with so little ceremony or respect for years to come.
You thought you were on top of your game, and had this all under control. You were wrong. You never understood the cost of using your fat to be one of the popular ones, the center of attention in a world of encouragers. But as youâre being rolled away to meet your fate â now the center of attention of the whole neighborhood, gaping at your blubbery, immobile form â you realize your fat, your appetite, and your jealousy were in control all along. Youâve given up a normal life so you can be admired for gorging yourself and growing until youâre one of the fattest people alive. And itâs too late to go back. Your fans are all you have left.
You werenât my first piggy. And you certainly wonât be my last. But I do think youâve been my most interesting so far.
You posted on your profile for years about how you wanted to be bigger, and how much bigger you wanted to be. You made morphs of yourself, showing your body with a monstrously large belly hanging down to your shins, with thighs twice as big around as a healthy waist, with arms bloated with fat to the wrists, and talked about how badly you wanted that to be you someday. You complained about how far you were from anyone else like you, how you were never going to be able to eat yourself as big as you wanted if you didnât have anyone around to help. And you were right â not a lot of independent half-ton piggies running around out there.
I donât think you really believed me when I told you Iâd take you away and give you the kind of life you said you wanted. Iâm sure I wasnât the first to make that offer; youâd probably heard it from guys before, only to have them disappear once theyâd gotten their rocks off. But I like to think you realized it was the real deal when the car showed up for you with a meat loversâ pizza in the back and a train ticket halfway across the country. No way Iâm making even a 300-pound fatty squeeze onto an airplane, or travel on an empty stomach.
You were certainly already fat when you arrived â no question that you were willing and able to pack on some weight. Iâm not sure if you chose smaller clothes with the intention of making a striking first impression, or if thatâs all you had. But my first sight of you was with your too-small t-shirt riding up a tumescent, wobbling belly; outgrown shorts straining to contain a round and jiggling ass literally spilling over the waistband; and even accessories like a watch or a woven wristband that, pinching a fold into the fat bulging around your wrists, looked like they hadnât fit comfortably for about fifty pounds. You seemed relieved when I told you we could do without clothes for a while, and gave you an oversized robe to grow into.
I had originally planned to ease you into a gaining lifestyle: shift over the course of a few weeks from regular meals to constant grazing whenever you werenât full. But you were way ahead of me. Youâd already taken up regular snacking in between meals; the limiting factor for you was the effort required to keep the snacks coming. With that barrier removed â the duty taken over by me â it didnât take long before you were eating plates of food, or bags and boxes of snacks, almost as quickly as I could bring them. Your growing double chins wagged as you gobbled up every mouthful of fattening food, working to constantly keep your belly as close to full as possible.
Taking in that much food that consistently, it wasnât surprising how quickly your weight began to climb. Within a matter of months, your robe went from oversized to wholly inadequate, your belly and tits spilling out into your lap between the flaps that could no longer reach around your waist. Your legs swelled from thick to bulbous, buried in rolls of fat that wobbled with each step, obscuring your knees and ankles, the weight and the friction of so much blubber holding you back more and slowing your pace with every passing day. Your arms showed the same progress, the lard cascading down from your dimpled, bulging biceps, past your disappearing elbow, down your flabby forearm to a grasping, pudgy hand like an inflated glove, rarely if ever to be seen without something edible in it. I noticed all these changes and more: how your posture shifted as your massive ass swelled and grew beneath you, how your voice changed as your vocal cords were swallowed by new and growing chins, how more and more of your movement became letting the weight and inertia of your fat do the work.
It was breathtaking to see what twenty pounds a month, every month, was doing to your body. And I could tell, at the rate you were going, that it wasnât going to be long before you were knocking on immobilityâs door. After that, it would just be a question of how long you could take the constant tube-feeding and how big you could get while it lasted; my bet was that youâd beat my personal best of 1,487 pounds, probably by at least 100 pounds.
And thatâs when you made the request that brought me up all standing: you wanted to go back where you came from. You werenât pleading to be released; you werenât regretting ever asking me to be your feeder, or repenting the indulgence that made you as fat as a cow. You werenât even apprehensive about getting stuffed past immobility. No, you wanted to get dropped back into normal life so you could feel the consequences of your gluttony. You wanted people to stare at the 800-pound hog struggling to waddle to the mailbox and back. You wanted to feel the embarrassment and judgment from breaking a mobility scooter under your obscene girth, and being stranded in the middle of a grocery store with a cart full of junk food. You wanted to haul yourself â a sweating, overheated, wobbling mess â to a doctorâs appointment so she could tell you just how badly youâve been wrecking your body, and how much danger your obesity is putting you in.
It was more delightfully twisted than anything I could come up with.
And so, I let you go â with conditions. You had to eat all the food I sent you to make sure you kept your weight up; no exceptions. Not that that was ever a problem. You had to set up cameras in your apartment, so I could keep an eye on you and see exactly how my piggy was doing, 24/7. And you had to wear a hidden bodycam, so that I wouldnât miss a moment of the abuse youâd be getting from the far thinner members of the public youâd be forced to encounter. You were more than happy to show off your life as a hyper-morbidly obese blimp for me.
Iâm watching you waddle back from the kitchen now, absolutely winded from the four or five steps to the couch, eating from a tray of snack cookies on the way to help keep your strength up. I just finished rewatching the bodycam video you sent this morning from yesterdayâs trip to the bakery outlet, chock full of side-eye and sneers from all the other patrons seeing the pathetic, enormous lardass filling their cart with discount sweets to go home and gorge on. I know someday youâll get tired of the effort, the constant judgment at having wrecked your body and let your weight quadruple that of a normal person, and come back to me to finish your journey to immobility. But for now, watching you have to struggle with what your gluttony has brought you to, laboring to live a normal life under the weight of the countless calories youâve crammed down your throat â I canât think of any way Iâd rather tease my fatty with the consequences of what theyâve done to their body than what youâve chosen for yourself.
Now letâs see what my next piggy can come up with to outdo youâŠ
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